


Gratitude

by fowo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Genyatta Week 2016, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowo/pseuds/fowo
Summary: Glimpses of a relationship.Title taken from and fic written to VNV Nation's Gratitude.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "First"; Genji's first lesson in Nepali
> 
> Disclaimer: My knowledge of Japanese is mediocre at best and my knowledge of Devanagari is quickly googled, but I really had to write this...

 

Zenyatta’s daily routine is simple. He meets his brothers and sisters of the monastery in silent meditation at dawn, filling the sanctum with the monotone hum of the internal fans and chiming orbs of two or three dozen omnics, bathed in a golden light that gets reflected on their chrome, shimmering and shining in the cold stone halls like a live being. Outsiders are welcome to join, and Genji has sat with them, not finding inner peace as he was awestruck by watching alone.

After this, Zenyatta and a few others leave the monastery to go down to the village. Zenyatta is a teacher for the children: Spelling and reading for the younger ones, history and philosophy for the older ones. And games in between for all who want to come join.

At first, Genji saw no reason to accompany Zenyatta. He was a grown man, Genji figured; he could read and write and speak English if he so desired. So instead, he would stay behind, training his skills or wandering the mountains by himself as Zenyatta spent his morning in the small classroom they had set up, an old-fashioned blackboard at the wall that Zenyatta wrote on with the impeccable handwriting that only a machine could have.

It was fine like this for a while.

But the longer Genji stayed in Nepal, the more he started to realize that he was an outsider not only because of his physical form. It was the language, too. Zenyatta—and all the omnics, really, spoke Japanese with him. It was easy for them to just switch their language output. The humans, however, spoke English with him. Among themselves, they went back to their native languages: Nepali, Chinese, Indian. While all of them were a mixed bunch from all over Asia, Genji realized he was, once more, the outsider.

It was never addressed, of course: Whoever came upon this little village was welcomed with open arms, and nobody asked questions. Even if the language barrier was a problem, the humans and omnics were patient and kind and sought only to help.

After some mulling it over and eavesdropping on conversations between villagers, Genji thought it was time to repay this kindness. And so it came that when Zenyatta opened the door to the classroom of fifteen rowdy five to ten year olds one morning, he found a grown Japanese man sitting amongst them.

Zenyatta gathered himself up from where he has paused in the doorway, folded his hands in front of him; the orbs around his neck twirling in a single orbit before resting again. “My,” he said as the children ran to take their seats on their mats. “It seems to me we have a new pupil today.”

The children giggled, turning to ogle Genji curiously. They loved him; loved the green lights on his body and the tricks he could show them. Their curiosity to his form, and the resulting questions, were nothing but desire for knowledge, and never bore no ill-will. Genji didn't consider himself to be a kid person, but at the same time, he appreciated the lightness of their company.

Genji remained poised quietly, his hands resting on his knees. He frowned behind the visor, carefully arranging the words. “I came to learn,” he said in Nepali, badly, making the children giggle some more.

“Now, now,” Zenyatta chided softly, raising a hand, and the children quieted down some. “Genji’s decision to join us is very noble. We are, all of us, but students before the wonders of life. I am glad to see you here, Genji.” His speech was clear and slow, and Genji could follow him just enough. Zenyatta’s praise was as embarrassing as it was welcome.

“However,” Zenyatta continued, picking up a piece of chalk with his delicate, long fingers, “I am sure some of you will enjoy teaching for once.” Genji was sure there was mirth in his voice as he turned around. “How about we repeat the alphabet first. Manisha, how would you like it to show Genji?”

A girl with a thick, black braid jumped to her feet excitedly and clambered over the other children to reach the blackboard and take the offered chalk from Zenyatta, starting to write Devanagari letters; some of which Genji recognized, some of which he didn’t. They read each letter out loud in a group, Genji more solemnly speaking along. As the lesson progressed, they wrote some simple words—Shambali, Iris, but also water, bread, sleep—and at the end, Zenyatta encouraged everyone to try and write Genji's name in their language. They ended up with at least ten different versions, all of which looked so alien to Genji, who was only used to see his name in kanji, maybe even romaji, but not this. Without being able to pinpoint when or even just why it happened, his determination to do something useful, to learn, died away, shriveling under a thick layer of doubt that he couldn’t brush away.

“What troubles you, Genji?” Zenyatta asked softly after the lesson was over and the children ran outside to play, screaming and laughing. “I was very happy to see you joining us today. It saddens me to see your mood didn’t last.”

Genji remained sitting in the back of the small classroom. “I cannot say,” he answered truthfully. He felt broken and lost, but he couldn’t say why. He had long stopped understanding his own feelings—leaving it to Zenyatta to shine some light on the darkness in his soul... literally _and_ figuratively.

Zenyatta hummed a long, monotone sound, half between a nonverbal human interjection and half the sound of a machine processing information. He dipped a sponge into a bowl of water, wrung it out gently, and went to wipe the blackboard. Genji watched him in silence.

“I have a good understanding of the Japanese language,” Zenyatta said after a long moment, seemingly non sequitur. “The required language packs are adequately installed in my memory, and I have a fundus of about—" He pauses, calculating quickly. "—3,578 kanji I can read and write.”

Genji’s frown deepened. Not that he ever actually _counted_ , but that seems like a huge deal more than what he is able to read and write on his own. “Your Japanese is impeccable, master,” he said simply.

Zenyatta turns his head and places the sponge aside. “And yet,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard Genji at all. He picks up the chalk, and slowly, carefully writes the kanji that make up Genji’s name. As with his Devanagari, his Japanese writing is perfect, not a radical wrong or shaky. “And yet I never mastered the art of calligraphy. It requires such— _creativity_ that I think I lack. It is a shame, don’t you think?”

Genji let out a sigh. “Calligraphy is pretty boring, master.”

Zenyatta chuckled, considering his writing with a slim hand on his chin. “If I recall correctly, you said the same thing about meditating not so long ago.”

“Just because I like _doing_ it doesn't mean it's not _boring_.”

Zenyatta turned as he laughed, holding out the stump of chalk. “You are a delight even when your mood is sour, Genji. Come over here, do me a favor.”

Genji got up to his feet without a stumble or a sound. A few years back, sitting so long on his legs would have resulted in pain and a sleeping limb or two. Now, he felt nothing nothing. He didn’t dwell on it and walked over to Zenyatta, taking the chalk from him.

“Write my name,” Zenyatta encouraged, folding his hands behind his back.

Genji looked at him, then the chalk, then the board. He extended his hand, setting the chalk down, then hesitated again. “In—Devanagari, or kanji, or romaji, or—”

“Whatever you like,” Zenyatta said softly. “Just write.”

Genji frowned, and what he began to write is _zen_ , the word and symbol of Zenyatta’s name and the notion just as much, and then pauses shortly, before finishing the name with a few much more simpler looking signs.

“Zenyatta,” Zenyatta read aloud. “Beautiful.” He pauses, politely. “I was expecting... I was expecting another way to spell it,” he admits then.

“This is the only way fitting," Genji muttered, tapping the chalk against the board. “ _Zen_ , yes, of course, but _yatta_... There is no other way I could write it but so.”

“It means _hooray_ , does it not?”

“Yes. It is an exclamation of joy, cheerfulness, success... Something to say when winning, or being happy.” Genji stared at the scribbled hiragana. They looked spidery and lively compared to Zenyatta’s perfect kanji.

“Meditation and joy,” Zenyatta said. “Thank you, Genji. This is wonderful. I am quite happy.” He sounded so genuine that Genji couldn’t help but feel embarrassed about it; it was not like he did anything great or achieved anything, but Zenyatta put his hand on Genji’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze so full of emotion as if Genji had given a starving man food.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, placing the chalk aside.

“Oh but I think it is,” Zenyatta said with a gentle shake of his head. “Do you not see?”

Genji frowned and stared back at the board, at both their names, written by two so different hands. He should have known that Zenyatta would turn this into a lesson, but he couldn’t see what his master was getting at.

“It’s… our names,” he pointed out carefully, earning a nod from Zenyatta. “In Japanese…”

“I am not Japanese,” Zenyatta helped him along gently.

“No,” Genji muttered, trying to coax more information out of his master, but Zenyatta was eternally patient and his faceplate gave away nothing. “But I can write your name in Japanese anyway?”

“Are you asking me, or are you telling me, Genji?”

“Telling.”

Zenyatta chuckled. “Yes, you can take my name, and make it your own. You can take it… and express with it meditation and an expression of joy. For which, again, I am thankful. You decided against writing it a certain way—a more _correct_ way, in a traditional sense—and made it something of your own. Now tell me, Genji—” And with this, Zenyatta picked up the chalk, and wrote his name in Devanagari below Genji’s Japanese. “Which of these two variations is right? Which is wrong?”

Genji thought he had caught on. “They’re both right,” he answered.

“They’re both right!” Zenyatta exclaimed, delighted, going so far as clapping his hands together. For someone without facial expressions, Genji was always impressed to see how expressive his master’s body language was. “Because they express the same thing, just differently.” Again, he rested a gentle hand on Genji’s shoulder. “Do try to not worry about how things look on the outside, whether they are _right_ or _wrong_ , when all that matters is what they stand for.”

Genji nodded, a little overwhelmed. Zenyatta let him go after one last, gentle squeeze. Genji caught his breath.

“Are all your spelling lessons this heavy, or are you making an exception for me?” he asked then, trying to regain his wits.

“I know you like a challenge, Genji,” Zenyatta answered with a little laugh, beckoning for Genji to follow him outside of the classroom to see what the rest of the day would bring.

**Author's Note:**

> *arrives twenty minutes late with off-brand coffee because who the fuck can afford starbucks anyway* gosh darn hoodelihoo i want in on this so bad. Genyatta is the ship that waters my crops, feeds my family, cures my depression,
> 
> [support me please](http://ko-fi.com/A62598W)? i'm unemployed and broke but I have to eat and pay rent hel p


End file.
